


do me a favour and break my nose

by aiineslin



Series: ich tu dir weh [3]
Category: Narcos (TV)
Genre: M/M, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-29
Updated: 2019-04-29
Packaged: 2020-02-09 19:57:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,895
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18645043
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aiineslin/pseuds/aiineslin
Summary: in which absolutely nothing of note happens.





	do me a favour and break my nose

**Author's Note:**

> honestly tis just a load of self-indulgent bullshit that's been marinating on my hard drive for too long

It is known to all and sundry that Navegante enjoys Jorge’s company.

Jorge is uncomfortably aware of this.

*

Still, even he could not have predicted what would happen next.

*

It started off ordinarily enough.

Navegante is dropping Jorge off at his house after a long day of work. He is tired, and his eyes are almost half-shut under the weight of his exhaustion. The car purrs to a stop in front of his gates, and Navegante reaches over, shaking Jorge to wakefulness.

“We’re here,” Navegante tells Jorge, and he watches as Jorge blinks himself to consciousness. Nodding absently, Jorge attempts to pull himself away from Navegante’s heavy hand, but the pressure increases, and Navegante is looking at him in a strangely considering way.

“You are very pretty,” Navegante says.

It is a very matter of fact tone, said in much the same way a child might have observed that the sky is blue.

Jorge stares at him for a moment. Is he still dreaming?

“Ok,” says Jorge, because honestly, what does one say to that?

(Also, there is a certain merit to refusing to show emotions in the face of predatory interest. Deprive a bully of a reaction, Jorge knows, and the bully will become bored after a while. But ah, Navegante is no ordinary bully, no?)

Navegante reaches out and lazily makes a circle with his thumb and forefinger around Jorge’s wrist. “Always wondered what it will feel like, fucking a man.”

Jorge is suddenly extremely awake. He stares at Navegante incredulously, his shoulders a straight line of tension. “Fuck off.”

Navegante does not seem to be fazed by this.

“I’m married,” says Jorge, pulling away, Navegante’s circlet of thumb and forefinger breaking apart. He never takes his eyes off Navegante, who is watching him, eyes blank and calm, a flat sea.

“Many men are married.” Navegante is leaning forwards slightly, his palms flat on his knees. There is the slightest pinch between his eyebrows as they draw together. “Many of them also fuck prostitutes.”

“Are you comparing yourself to a prostitute,” says Jorge. He is deflecting, he knows. He is also leaning away unconsciously, the pull to Navegante’s push, moving in reactionary tandem to Navegante’s movements.

“Why not?” Navegante has not blinked once in the past few seconds. “They make good money. Sometimes they are even loved.”

“Because,” Jorge says, reaching behind him with one hand and opening the door without looking. He does not dare to break eye contact with Navegante. “I am _married_. I have children. I have a wife.”

Finally, Navegante blinks and it is to squeeze out a long, exasperated sigh. “I have said this. A lot of men are married and fuck prostitutes.”

“And I have said,” Jorge has one leg out of the car. “I am married.”

“Jorge?”

Light cuts across the darkness of Jorge’s front yard. His door is open, and Paola stands in the middle of his door – he cannot make out her expression, but there is worry threading the undercurrents of her voice.

“I am here, Paola,” he calls and he stumbles out of the car ungracefully, shutting the door. He opens his gate with steady hands, locks it while listening to the idling growl of the car’s engine, and paces up the path, feeling Navegante’s gaze digging into the small of his back.

“Is everything alright?”

“Yes. Yes, everything is alright.”

He holds Paola’s hand, and he enjoys the feel of her wedding band digging into his flesh when he grips her hand.

In the night beyond the house’s perimeter, the rumble of a car pulling away shatters the silence.

*

He does not see Navegante for the next three weeks.

It happens sometimes.

Jorge is the second in the security department.

Navegante is - … something. A garrotte in the dark. A gun pressed into the soft temple of the head. When he has nothing to do, he tags along with Jorge happily enough.

He is clearly making his displeasure known now; Navegante has enough pull to adjust his schedule and postings as and when he wanted.

Jorge does not miss Navegante.

*

(Maybe he misses Navegante when Luca shoots a prostitute in her face.

“Was that needed.” Jorge looking down at the ungainly corpse.

“Bad blowjob,” Luca supplies. And then he pauses, retraces his way back to the mission he was given. “And she was talking shit about Gilberto’s favourite girl.”)

*

Just as suddenly Navegante disappears from his life, the man decided to make a re-appearance on the last day of March.

He brings with him a packet of Bon Bon Bums, an apple, and two arepas.

“You drive,” says Navegante, surrendering the driver’s seat to Jorge. Jorge eyes him for a moment, before he steps into the driver’s seat.

It is almost terrifying how fast everything falls back into normalcy.

He is in a car with a known killer of men, and he is driving to a cartel boss’ house, and he is sharing food with this killer.

Navegante peels the apple with deft flicks of his penknife, and he puts the neatly cut slices into Jorge’s outstretched hand. They drive and eat in silence, and the silence breaks when they have finished the apple and arepas, with Navegante tearing open the Bon Bon Bum packet.

“Sweet?”

“Yes.”

He takes the offered Bon Bon Bum, popping it into his mouth. Navegante has given him the grape flavour – Jorge’s absolute favourite.

“I don’t want this to ruin our friendship.” It is Navegante who speaks up first again. The man’s head is lolling loosely on his shoulders, eyes staring at the trees and houses and lampposts flashing by.

“Then don’t ever ask to fuck me again.”

“Ok.” Navegante nods.

Jorge nods, and for a moment, they continue to drive.

He knows he shouldn’t ask this now that the issue has been laid to rest, but the question bubbles up on his tongue.

“Why am I the one who gets fucked?”

“Because you have beautiful eyes,” replies Navegante without missing a beat.

 _What the absolute motherfuck, what the fuck,_ Jorge wants to yell.

Navegante seems to read his mind, because he continues, “You have prettier eyes than most women.” He sighs, and sinks further down in his seat. “You have a telenovela actress’ eyes. One of the good ones. Who,” He wiggles his fingers limply in the air. “Tell a story with just the little expressions of their face. That’s you.”

He sounds genuinely sad at the prospect of never being able to fuck Jorge.

Unbidden, Jorge lifts his left hand to pinch the bridge of his nose.

His gaze drifts to the side mirror, and it snaps away when he realises that Navegante is looking at his face.

“If we continue to talk about this,” says Navegante quietly. “I’ll talk about fucking you again. Let us move on, yes? Put this behind us. I’d like us to continue being friends, Jorge Salcedo.”

In the distance, Miguel’s house draws into view. They are silent for the period of time that Jorge takes to park the car carefully – violating no traffic rules despite there being no meter maid fool enough to ticket a Cali man’s car. He looks over at Navegante before he exits and he says, “Ok. No more talk about this.”

*

This does not happen. It did not happen, and it never will.

*

Navegante is brutal when he fucks. He wants to look at Jorge while the other is on his cock, splaying his legs wide with a firm hand and the other gripping Jorge’s shoulder. His hand steals over to the long, exposed line of Jorge’s neck after a little while, and he puts some pressure into the grip, enjoying the way Jorge’s eyes flit shut, enjoying the way small tears bead at the corners of his eyes.

He leaves bruises all over Jorge’s body, a hickey sucked into the side of Jorge’s neck, a large bruise worried into Jorge’s left inner thigh.

When Jorge wants to come, Navegante takes Jorge’s cock into his hand.

“I can do it by myself,” Jorge had gasped out, but Navegante bends over and covers Jorge’s mouth with his own, and he jerks Jorge off to completion with quick, strong strokes.

After, Navegante asks for a blowjob and Jorge refuses. “Please,” begs Navegante. “I want to see you cry.”

Jorge spits at Navegante, and Navegante laughs. But the man stops asking, and instead he chooses to hold Jorge, nestling his face into Jorge’s neck.

They are very quiet for long minutes. Jorge is looking at the metal ceiling fan, watching its blades glide sluggishly through the humid air.

“I suppose you’re beating yourself up over cheating on your wife now,” says Navegante when the silence has gone on for far too long, and Jorge lashes out with a closed fist, and Navegante grabs it quick as a striking snake, forcing it down and rolling over to pin Jorge to the bed in one fluid movement.  

He grips Jorge’s wrist to the point where he knows it hurts, he sees the furrow between Jorge’s brow that deepens when the pain grows, feels Jorge twitch under him, but Jorge does not make a sound in protest - Jorge only struggles feebly against Navegante’s weight, and his grip on Navegante’s shoulder tightens too, and Navegante knows that if Jorge keeps his nails long, blood would have been drawn.

They remain that way for several breaths, and as one, they seem to arrive at a consensus without words; Navegante releases Jorge’s wrist and Jorge’s grasp on Navegante’s shoulder weakens. They look at each other, and Navegante lifts Jorge’s striking hand up. He looks at the indents his fingers had made in Jorge’s wrist, knows the purpling bruises that will soon darken Jorge’s flesh.

“You don’t know how to punch properly,” says Navegante, almost to himself.

“I was a good student at school,” says Jorge. His breath is uneven, the only sign belying the fact he had struggled so hard just a few seconds ago. “I never got into any fights.”

“The army didn’t teach you how to punch?”

“We had guns.”

Navegante considers this statement, and he slides a thumb over Jorge's wrist. “But you don’t carry a gun now.” He pulls himself into a seating position, dragging Jorge up with him.

Jorge questions him with a raised eyebrow, and Navegante lifts Jorge’s hand, rearranging his fingers and aligning his wrist.  

“This is how you punch,” Navegante says. He takes Jorge’s fist and places it gently against his throat. “This is always a good spot to put a man down.”

In the yellow light of the hotel room, Jorge’s face is studiously blank.

He touches kisses to Jorge’s knuckles, kisses his way up and along Jorge’s inner arm and Jorge pulls him in for the remaining distance, closing the length between them by meeting Navegante with a kiss that is mostly teeth and hurt.

Navegante meets it delightedly, and they struggle like this for a moment, and then Jorge abruptly pulls away, letting Navegante topple forward a little, his mouth a bruised line of incomprehension and incompletion.

“You’re a mean fucker,” says Jorge.

It is one of the very few times Navegante has heard Jorge swear, and Navegante smiles when he hears the expletive leave Jorge’s lips.

“You are too,” says Navegante simply, and he leans over and presses Jorge back into the mattress.


End file.
